Valley of Decision

by Lynne Gentry

  Magdalena blinked back tears. “To see your heart healed has been my honor.”

  Brutus nodded, then turned to Lawrence and whispered, “Now would be the time to say your good-byes and disappear into the crowd.”

  Lawrence planted his feet, his jaw set for a fight. “She’s innocent!”

  “If they find her guilty, you won’t get another chance,” Brutus continued whispering. “If they find her innocent and set her free, you can determine a meeting place and she can find you easy enough.”

  Magdalena laced her fingers with her husband’s. “I love you, Lawrence, but one of us has to take care of the kids.”

  “It took me years to find you”—he tightened his arm around her waist—“don’t ask me to leave you now.”

  “Tell our girls how much I love them.” The tears stinging her eyes would not be held back forever. “I’m counting on you to love Laurentius like your own son.”

  Lawrence cast aside the precautions they’d taken with her typhoid and cupped her face with his hands. “I won’t go without you.” In his eyes, she could see her distorted face. Ridged slashes that extended her lips almost to her ears. Old before her time. She laid a hand on his chest in an effort to turn him away, to keep him from kissing her out of pity. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, as if her fevered hand had burned straight to his heart.

  Magdalena could feel the pain beating inside him, and her own emotions threatened to boil over. “What we see is not all there is. God will not fail us.”

  “I love you.” Lawrence lowered his lips to hers. His beard, which had passed the bristly stage a couple of days earlier, was a soft, private curtain drawn around her mouth. He kissed her deeply, as if he wanted the ridges of her scars permanently etched into his lips. He pulled back only when Brutus gave him a little nudge.

  “You can’t stay, my love. Go.”

  His eyes brimming with tears, Lawrence told her, “Look for me.” His eyes lingered. This time, when her gaze wavered over the watery depths of his love, she saw a woman she’d not seen in years: One who was perfect. Beautiful. Young. “I’m coming for you,” he whispered, and then he was gone.

  Magdalena teetered on the edge of running after him, clutching the clean tunic to her chest as if it were a promise Lawrence could actually keep. Short of trying to jump down the time portal with everyone they loved, they could do nothing and they both knew it. She wanted to be brave, to go to her death as those before her had. With her head held high. But her mouth was paper dry, her eyes flooded with tears, and her courage a puddle of candle wax.

  Brutus freed Kardide from the wall. The old woman, her drainage tube flopping from her headscarf like a snake trying to escape Medusa’s turban, rushed to Magdalena and wrapped her in a steadying hug. Magdalena melted into her embrace, counting her friend’s remarkable recovery more than a testament to Lisbeth’s excellent surgical skills; her presence was a gift from God. Though they were both unwashed and sour-smelling, each was unwilling to relinquish the support of the other.

  “I wish I had time to give your head wound proper attention, Kardide.”

  “It can wait,” Kardide assured her.

  Brutus unlocked Magdalena’s chain from the wall hook, then turned his back to allow Kardide’s assistance with Magdalena’s garment change. Next he freed Tabari, and she hurried across the aisle and insisted on finger combing Magdalena’s hair. Within minutes Magdalena’s hopeless tangles had been subdued into one neat plait that hung down her back. Once Iltani was freed, she silently raised the hem of her dress and wiped the grime from Magdalena’s face.

  “Thank you, my friends”—Magdalena swallowed the lump in her throat—“for everything.”

  “Today’s hearing is just a formality, right?” Kardide asked. “Our chance to tell them you did not kill that monster.”

  Magdalena didn’t have a definitive answer. She’d been counting on Lisbeth to give her the latest information. When her daughter failed to show up, Magdalena knew in her gut that something wasn’t right. Doing her best to remove any trace of fear from her voice, she said, “You heard Pontius. Cyprian and Lisbeth are making a plan.”

  “Brutus!” a soldier bellowed from the open door. “I swear upon Juno’s stone, if you don’t get those prisoners out here, I’ll beat you along with them.”

  “Coming!” Brutus shouted.

  If the soldier had captured Lawrence he would have sounded much happier. Magdalena breathed a sigh of relief. “Fear not, my friends.” She gave Brutus’s hand a covert squeeze. “I’m ready.” On shaky legs, Magdalena traversed the narrow tunnel, wishing for time to stop and assess each prisoner.

  “We’re praying for you, lady,” they said as she passed.

  Magdalena thanked each one, then bent beneath the stone lintel and came forth from the tunnel like one raised from the grave. Her hands flew to shield her eyes from the white-hot glare. She’d lost count of how many days it had been since she’d seen the sun. She lifted her face and boldly said aloud a prayer of thanks as the blinding rays warmed the chilly dread pumping through her veins.

  “Move it,” a soldier ordered.

  Magdalena lowered her hands. The redhead who’d taken such great pleasure in dragging her into custody now had a whip. The law was clear. In cases that involved a slave murdering her owner, she could be flogged in the Forum so that no other slaves would consider the possibility of hurting those who enslaved them. Should she be found guilty, the state would exercise its right to inflict the death penalty and she could be flogged yet again. Since she was not considered a Roman citizen, she would die on a cross erected in the center of the arena.

  Before her weak knees could betray her, Magdalena checked over her shoulder. One by one her friends emerged into the light, ducking their heads as she had in response to the brightness. In the sunlight, she could see how they were in worse shape than she’d thought: filthy, bruised, broken as she, and unsure of what lay ahead.

  The redheaded soldier yanked the chain connecting their shackles. Magdalena and her friends stumbled after their armed escorts.

  More people than Magdalena had seen on the streets since the beginning of the measles outbreak lined the steep path to the Forum. Quiet and somber, they stared at the degradation of her body.

  “Healer!” A bent old woman stepped in front of the soldiers who flanked Magdalena and handed her a beautiful head covering. “For saving my son.”

  Another woman, younger and toting a toddler, pressed an ivory comb into her hand. “For saving my mother.”

  Before they could move on, another woman ran up and swiped a cool cloth across her face. “For healing my baby.”

  “Stand back.” The redhead withdrew his sword and the murmuring crowd backed down, but just for a moment.

  Magdalena slid the comb into her pocket, draped her head with the shawl, and then marched toward the Forum with her spirits buoyed and her shoulders raised a little higher.

  By the time they made the turn toward Byrsa Hill the following had doubled in size. A woman with a face scabbed by a recent case of the measles burst through the guard line. “You may not remember me, dear lady, but I shall never forget my family ate because of your kindnesses.” She pressed into Magdalena’s palm a pouch of dried dates.

  People she recognized as those she’d helped, and even some she had not, wormed their way through the throng and gifted her with scraps of bread or pieces of cheese.

  The redhead squeezed her arm. “Keep moving,” he growled into her ear. Even he knew an order to stop the gifting could ignite into a riot.

  Magdalena received so many tokens of appreciation her pockets bulged. She cradled a flask of wine against her chest, a treasure she did not take for granted. The generosity these people had shown her was not without cost. Many of them and their families would go hungry tonight.

  Had Christ felt the same mix of gratitude and responsibility as he rode into Jerusalem to face his end? Magdalena’s chains dragged behind her, stirring the dust and unstoppab
le tears.

  Long before Magdalena was ready, the covered walkways of the Forum came into view. The redheaded soldier led them up steep steps and hurried them past the bored luxury stall vendors. Hungry patrons weren’t interested in silk, incense, glass, alabaster, ivory, or hammered copper. The only vendors doing any business were the seafood salesmen. And they’d had to reduce their prices so drastically that they were practically giving away the last of their salted Atlantic fish to the few families who still had a bit of gold in their purse.

  At the Forum, an even larger crowd had gathered. Rumor of her trial must have spread through the city faster than the plague. Though Magdalena was preoccupied with praying her stomach would calm, she was quietly pleased to see how God had answered her prayers and allowed more than she expected to survive the drought and sickness.

  The redheaded soldier towed them through the Forum’s arched entry and into the pillared circle. The temple of Jupiter dominated the northern quadrant. Sunlight bounced off the bronze roof tiles and lit up three statues perched high atop stone pediments. The god of thunder commanded center attention. Beside him stood his regal queen, Juno, the goddess of love. On Jupiter’s left, his virgin daughter, Minerva, the goddess of medicine, looked down her sculpted nose at the sickly healer being hauled before her court.

  Magdalena’s gaze skipped over the public weights and measures tables scattered about. In the center of the Forum, four serious-faced trumpeters with shiny brass horns guarded the podium where the town crier shouted the daily news. The small stage, swept clean of trash and pigeons, had been decorated with one massive ivory seat.

  In all her years, Magdalena had never seen so much ceremony dedicated to a simple pretrial hearing. Usually the hearings were so insignificant they drew scarcely any notice from those conducting business at the vendors’ stalls.

  Stifling heat, along with the growing throng, sucked up the fresh air Magdalena craved. Her gaze ricocheted over the people, searching for one tall gangly man with gray hair and lips she longed to kiss one more time. But Lawrence was nowhere to be found.

  Suddenly, Pontius was at her side and Cyprian on the other. Their protective grasp on her elbows felt as if God had come to carry her across the finish line.

  “Once the judge arrives, this should be over quickly.” The folds in Cyprian’s white toga were crisp.

  “Judge? What happened?”

  “Try not to borrow trouble.” Though his voice was steady, Cyprian couldn’t conceal the worry in his eyes.

  “No matter what happens to me, please see what you can do for those still in chains in Perpetua’s prison,” Magdalena said.

  “Let’s get you acquitted first,” Cyprian said to the redheaded soldier. “I’m allowed a moment of privacy with my clients.”

  The brazen young cadet eyed Pontius. “Is this your man?”

  “He is.”

  The soldier reluctantly relinquished custody of the chain into Pontius’s outstretched hand. Magdalena and her friends followed Cyprian to the bench reserved for the accused. Pontius stood guard as the women formed a little huddle around Cyprian. She shared the spoils in her pockets with them as Cyprian caught them up. “Titus could not persuade the new proconsul to recuse himself from your trial, so we went with a different plan.”

  “And what is this plan?” Kardide gnawed on a crust of bread.

  Magdalena patted her hand. “He’ll do his best, my friend.” From the corner of her eye, she spotted Lisbeth wearing a hooded cloak and working her way to the front of the crowd, her face determined and stronger than anyone should ever have to be. It was all Magdalena could do not to run to her daughter and beg her to take everyone they loved as far from this time as possible. “What is Lisbeth doing here?”

  Cyprian leaned in close. “You know chains would not have kept her away.”

  Magdalena searched the crowd for a striking blonde matching Lawrence’s description of their granddaughter. “Please tell me Maggie is not here as well.”

  “I’ve tasked Barek with Maggie’s safety,” Cyprian assured her. “She’s not to set foot outside of Titus’s villa.”

  Grateful relief quivered in her nervous belly. “Then let’s get this over with.”

  32

  I HEAR TRUMPETS!” MAGGIE TRAILED only a few steps behind Barek, determined to keep up. “Does that mean we are missing the trial?”

  “We will if you don’t stop talking and start walking.” Barek, it seemed to her, purposely increased the length of his stride just to irritate her. Not only had he insisted on escorting her to the trial, he’d taken over the plan. Already this morning, he’d found one chore after another to delay their departure.

  Maggie understood why he’d insisted they wait until her parents left for the Forum before they set out. She even understood that Barek had agreed to take her only because he knew that with or without him, she was going. Tempting as it was to let herself imagine Barek’s overprotectiveness was about more than his irritating big-brother tendencies, his sullen face and narrowed eyes told the real story. Taking Maggie to her grandmother’s trial after he’d given his word to Cyprian that he’d keep her home was, in Barek’s mind, as deceptive as selling writs of libellus. The one time she’d forced him to look at her, she’d felt the same twinge of guilt she’d experienced the night he’d risked his life to keep a bratty five-year-old safe from pursuing soldiers. She hadn’t meant to put him in a compromising position then and she hadn’t meant to do it now.

  Eggie sidled up and let his fingers brush hers. “I told you we should have left earlier.”

  “And what excuse would you have given if her parents had caught us?” Barek tossed over his shoulder.

  Guilt or not, Maggie didn’t think it fair to allow Barek to take out his frustration with her on Eggie. “Same one I gave the night we had to outrun the soldiers at the Tophet.”

  Barek stopped so abruptly that she face-planted in the middle of his back. He wheeled, his eyes simmering coals and his temper flared. “And what exactly did you tell them?”

  “I told them you made me go against my will.”

  He crammed his hands upon his hips. “Me?” He shouted so loudly a couple of peasants hurrying along beside them stopped to look. “You were the one who nearly got us killed and you know it.”

  Okay, he had her there. She was the one who’d insisted on tagging along to help him bury his mother’s ashes. It was her scream, when she tripped and twisted her ankle, that had alerted the soldiers to possible curfew breakers in the area. And her claustrophobia inside the Tophet morphed into a hyperventilating tantrum that gave away their location and sent the soldiers thundering their way. If Barek hadn’t abandoned his mother’s ashes and scooped her up, both of them would have been caught.

  Maggie waited until the peasants moved along. “Lighten up, Barek. I was just kidding. I didn’t really tell them that. I’m sorry for everything about that night.” He flinched at her touch, but he didn’t pull away. “Why are you always so serious?”

  “Because somebody has to think ahead.”

  “Look out!” Eggie flew at them like a superhero, plowing into Maggie and Barek with a force that sent all three of them sprawling onto the sidewalk. A split second later five black horses pulling a golden chariot whizzed past, the driver’s whip snapping in the air.

  Maggie’s skull throbbed where the back of her head had hit the pavement. She tried to move but Eggie had her pinned down. His gray eyes were less than two inches from hers. “I can’t breathe,” she said, gasping.

  “Are you hurt?” Eggie’s chest pressed so tightly against hers she could feel his heart beating. His lips hovered above her, close enough she could kiss them without moving.

  From the corner of her eye, Maggie saw Barek hustle to get his legs under him. He came up huffing. “She said she can’t breathe.”

  Eggie grinned, not making any effort to shift his weight or remedy their compromising position. “Trust me, she’s breathing.”

  Barek grabb
ed Eggie’s tunic and roughly hauled him upright. “When she says she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe.”

  Maggie struggled to her feet. “Stop it, Barek.” She brushed herself off, dug her phone out of her backpack, and examined the pink case. “You both would have been so dead if this were broken.”

  “What is that?” Eggie asked.

  “It’s my camera.” She held it up, extended her arm, and snapped a picture of their stunned faces. “Well, not my good camera. My phone’s easier to conceal.”

  A few clicks in the edit program and she’d cropped out a couple of curious rubberneckers and corrected Barek and Eggie’s red wide-eyed stare. “Pictures.” She turned the screen and showed them the image. “Of my friends.”

  Eggie lurched backward, his eyes growing bigger still. “Are you a witch?”

  “No.” Barek took Maggie by the elbow. “She’s just sneaky.” He poked Eggie in the chest. “That’s why you’re going to help me keep an eye on her.”

  33

  LISBETH RAN ALL THE way from Titus’s villa to the Forum, her bag tucked inside her cloak. She hit the steps without taking the time to catch her breath and pushed through the restless crowd with equal parts gratitude and anger: Gratitude for Cyprian’s willingness to step in and sternly forbid Maggie to attend the trial. Anger at his unwillingness to allow Titus to take his place.

  When it came to Maggie, it was nice not to be the disciplinarian for once. Or to be the sole brunt of her wrath when they tried to explain why she had no business being in the middle of a political hotbed. But when it came to Cyprian’s refusal to heed her fears for his life or to allow her to take the stand on behalf of her mama, Lisbeth wasn’t as enamored.

  Her mother’s friends were there that night, but she was the only one who could give accurate medical testimony as to Aspasius’s deteriorated state. And Lisbeth would say the evil man would have died much sooner and in far more pain if Magdalena hadn’t tried to help him.

  The second Lisbeth had Quinta and her grandson stabilized, she’d left a rather subdued Maggie a list of chores and sprinted toward Byrsa Hill. Lisbeth elbowed her way through the crowd. The stink of unwashed bodies and the distinctive scent of wet chicken feathers triggered her gag reflex. Measles, and possibly their nasty accomplice typhoid, were in this mob. Holding her breath, she burst into the circle, her eyes frantically trying to take in the proceedings. Shimmers of heat rose from the uneven cobblestones in the center of the Forum.